


fortune favors the brave, dude

by groves625



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drift Compatibility, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jaegers (Pacific Rim), Kaiju (Pacific Rim), Soulmates, processing trauma and finding new love by piloting robots and punching monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groves625/pseuds/groves625
Summary: “Ms. Lionett is a key member of our Mark 3 restoration program. She personally trained and handpicked each of your copilot candidates.”The smaller woman smirks, extending her hand out to Yasha. “You can call me Beau,” she says, the low timbre of her voice settling warmly in Yasha’s chest. Her blue eyes briefly run up and down Yasha’s soaked frame. “I have to say, I’ve done my fair share of research on you, and you’re still not quite what I expected.”Yasha takes the proffered hand, and replies with a smile of her own, “In a good way or a bad way, Beau?”Beau maintains her surprisingly strong grip and holds Yasha’s gaze for a moment.“I’m not sure yet.”ORThe Pacific Rim AU.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha
Comments: 14
Kudos: 119





	fortune favors the brave, dude

**Author's Note:**

> i spent way too much time pouring over the maps in Explorer's Guide to Wildemount for all these city names so ur welcome

KAIJU (巨獣, kaijū, Japanese) Giant Beast.

JAEGER (yā’gar, German) Hunter.

* * *

Yasha’s ears ring with the deafening blare of sirens as she is abruptly, and enthusiastically, shaken awake. Struggling to orient herself, her eyes focus on a woman’s face mere inches from her own. Dark skin and wild curls fill her vision as the woman smiles at her eagerly, entirely too alert for the middle of the night.

“Up and at ‘em, sleepyhead! We’re being deployed, they’ve got movement in the breach,” Zuala excitedly informs her as she slips out of their shared bed. Yasha’s eyes drift across the vast expanse of exposed skin as her wife begins to hastily pull on underwear and rifle through drawers. “This kaiju is the biggest one yet - a category three,” Zuala continues as she turns back to throw a shirt at Yasha. “Codename: _Knifehead_.”

Yasha’s brain catches up to her senses as she manages to roll out of bed and pull the shirt over her head. Only now does she hear movement and raised voices in the hallway outside, and the automated voice repeating the event alert over the loudspeakers.

“What time is it?”

“Two.”

“AM?”

“Yep.”

Yasha groans, pulling on the remainder of her clothing. Zuala bounds over, pressing her front against Yasha and wrapping her arms around the taller woman’s waist. “What do you say, baby?” She presses a chaste kiss to Yasha’s lips. “Ready to put another notch on the belt?”

Yasha huffs out a laugh and presses another kiss to her wife’s lips, before disentangling them to make her way towards the bathroom. She feels a small hand playfully swat her ass as she passes.

“Hey,” Yasha stops, turns back towards the other woman, a soft smile playing on her face. “Don’t get cocky.” Zuala lifts two fingers in a mock salute.

Dressed, the two make their way through the dimly lit halls of the base towards the prep room. They strip down to their jumpsuits and technicians help strap each of the two women into their drivesuits - rigid pieces of polycarbonate and metal that make Yasha feel more like a medieval knight than a modern pilot.

Donning their helmets, the copilots make their way into the cockpit, Yasha taking up her usual position as left hemisphere. Stepping into position, the controls lock into her suit at her feet, arms, and spine. The cockpit comms crackle to life.

“Securing cockpit, getting ready to drop,” comes the operator’s voice.

“Release for drop,” Yasha replies.

“Storm Lord ready for the big drop,” Zuala confirms.

The familiar weightless sensation takes over as the cockpit lurches and begins to fall. When the cockpit finally makes contact with the body of the jaeger below, it locks firmly into position. Yasha feels a steady rumbling beneath her feet as Storm Lord’s nuclear reactor fires up, as well as the resistance to her movements that comes from piloting nearly two thousand tons of metal. Yasha opens the comms once more.

“Storm Lord ready and aligned, sir.”

“Prepare for neural handshake in 15 seconds, 14, 13….”

Yasha finds her wife’s gaze, her adrenaline and excitement finally kicking in. “You ready to step into my head, babe?”

Zuala laughs, “You mean I’m not always in there already?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yasha smiles, closes her eyes, and braces herself for the drift.

The rush of memories and emotions that comes with the drift is familiar, but exhilarating all the same. Glimpses of images from her own past - the first kaiju attacks, training for the Jaeger program, her and Zuala’s wedding day - are mixed with those of her wife’s - parents and a childhood home that is not her own, a pet dog, her own pale face reflected back at her. She knows Zuala’s mind almost as well as her own these days - not just from the drift, but from years of friendship, late nights and long conversations, and, through it all, falling in love. The drift just solidifies what Yasha already knows.

When Yasha opens her eyes, they’re connected - their two minds sharing the body of a giant machine. They stretch and calibrate their hemispheres, right arm first, then left, the giant metal arms of the jaeger following their movements exactly. They’re ready.

The towering hangar doors open to reveal a storm raging in the night, and Storm Lord steps out into the choppy waves of the bay. With Yasha and Zuala moving seamlessly in time with each other, Storm Lord lumbers away from the city, towards the vast expanse of the Lucidian. A familiar voice rings over the comms.

“Rangers, this is Expositor Dairon. Your orders are to hold the miracle mile off Port Zoon, copy?”

“Copy that,” Zuala responds.

Yasha notices a blip on their navigational sensors. “Expositor, there’s still a civilian vessel in the Gulf, shouldn’t we-”

“Rangers, you are protecting a city of nearly twenty thousand people. I won’t have you risk their safety for the lives of ten fishermen, understood?”

“...Understood.”

The comms shut off, and Yasha turns to look imploringly at her wife. “Zuala -”

“Don’t worry, Yash, we’re saving the boat.”

Yasha smiles. “Then let’s go fishing.”

Roaring waves crash against Storm Lord’s hull as they make their way deeper out into the gulf. After a few minutes, Yasha spots the lights of a small fishing vessel being tossed about by the storm. She is getting ready to point out the boat to Zuala when their sensors sound an alarm, and Yasha’s attention is drawn to a moving red dot on their radar.

“Kaiju signature, dead ahead,” Yasha reports.

“I see it,” the smaller woman confirms. “Get ready.”

As if waiting for her signal, the kaiju bursts upwards from beneath the waves with a deafening roar. The ripple the beast sends out is nearly enough to capsize the small boat which, unfortunately, sits directly between Storm Lord and Knifehead. Closing the distance, Zuala lowers Storm Lord’s right arm to scoop up the vessel, tucking it securely into the Jaeger’s side before turning and depositing the boat behind them, back towards the shore. 

A heavy blow glances off Storm Lord’s shoulder as they turn back to face their opponent, a towering colossus of a kaiju whose jagged skull plating juts out from its face to a sharp point. Yasha briefly thinks he could be a hammerhead shark’s much sharper cousin.

Perfectly in sync, Yasha and Zuala deliver blow after blow to the kaiju, staggering the beast. However, the kaiju regains its footing and launches itself at Storm Lord, forcing Yasha to quickly raise the Jaeger’s left arm to block the gnashing jaws that aimed directly for the cockpit. The kaiju pushes forward, using all of its substantial weight to force Storm Lord back, claws raking at the hull as its maw still rips into the jaeger’s forearm. 

“Zu, the cannon!” Yasha yells, voice strained with effort.

“I’m on it!” Zuala replies as she pulls back Storm Lord’s right arm and the sound of the jaeger’s plasma cannon powering up fills the cockpit. Storm Lord’s stance buckles under the weight of the kaiju, and Yasha and Zuala both grunt with the effort to hold the beast back.

“Zuala, shoot it now!”

Storm Lord’s right arm raises, and the blue glow of the plasma cannon presses directly against the kaiju’s abdomen and fires, sending showers of bioluminescent entrails flying as Knifehead falls backward beneath the water, unmoving.

The comms crackle to life as Dairon’s agitated voice rings through the cockpit.

“Storm Lord, what the hell is going on out there?”

“Job’s done, Expositor,” Yasha replies, a smile on her face. “Scored our fifth kill.”

“You disobeyed a direct order!”

“Respectfully, Expositor,” Zuala chimes in, “We took down a kaiju _and_ saved everyone on that boat -”

“Back to your post, now.”

Yasha and Zuala share a look, and Yasha huffs out a laugh as Zuala rolls her eyes, “Yes, Expositor.”

They turn back towards the shore, but only make it a few steps before Dairon’s voice is back in their ears, this time bordering on panicked.

“Storm Lord, we’re still getting a signature. That kaiju is still alive, I repeat, _the kaiju is still alive_.”

Yasha and Zuala wheel Storm Lord around, frantically searching the water for any sign of the monster, but they can’t see anything beneath the rolling waves.

“Grab the boat and get out of there,” the expositor continues. “Do you copy? Grab the boat and get out of there, now!”

The kaiju explodes from the water before either woman can act. A massive claw slams into the side of Storm Lord, knocking them off-kilter and sending Yasha’s and Zuala’s suspension rigs flying. Storm Lord stumbles back, and when they gain their footing, Yasha powers up their left side plasma cannon.

“I got this one!” Yasha cries, raising her arm. But she doesn’t.

In one fell swoop, Knifehead’s claw knocks the plasma cannon to the side and the beast’s sharp, pointed skull drives right through Storm Lord’s left shoulder joint, leaving nothing but jagged metal and exposed wiring as the jaeger’s giant arm crumbles into the sea.

Pain shoots down Yasha’s arm as the piloting circuitry overloads. She lets out an agonized cry, clutching at her shoulder as alarms blare, and monitors flash red.

Zuala cries into the comms, “Mission Control, we’ve been hit!”

Storm Lord staggers, and the women have no time to recover before another blow slams into the side of the cockpit, metal wrenching as massive claws tear through the hull mere feet from Zuala.

“The hull!” Zuala continues, “It’s through the hull!”

Zuala’s head whips around to meet Yasha’s gaze. Underneath the determination, Yasha can see the sheer terror in her wife’s face.

“Yasha, listen to me, you need to -”

Cables snap and circuits spark as Zuala is wrenched from the cockpit. Yasha screams, reaches for her wife, feels a rush of terror, regret, _love_ , followed by agonizing pain and then -

Nothing.

“ZUALA! ZUALA!” Yasha cries as if somehow her wife will respond, as if she will just climb back into the cockpit and lead them home as if she didn’t just feel Zuala’s mind violently wrenched from her own in a way that can only mean one thing.

Before she can fully process, Yasha’s body is wracked by electric shocks as the neural link joins her to the jaeger’s right hemisphere - the hemisphere currently without a pilot.

Storm Lord lurches as the kaiju launches another attack. Yasha stumbles, her muscles and her mind struggling to maneuver the full weight of the jaeger below her. Knifehead’s iron grip has her pinned, and drives its skull deep into Storm Lord’s chest, just above the nuclear reactor. Yasha cries out as the pain radiates in her own sternum.

Gritting her teeth and summoning all her strength, Yasha raises her right arm to power up the remaining plasma cannon. It feels as though an eternity passes while the cannon charges, the kaiju sinking its teeth into the body of the jaeger over and over again. When the cannon reaches full power, Yasha releases a primal yell, jams the cannon against the kaiju’s throat, and fires.

Knifehead falls.

Yasha catches her breath but remains tense, poised. The kaiju doesn’t move again.

The pilot takes in her surroundings - the grueling fight has knocked them way off course, and Storm Lord’s sensors are so fried they can’t tell her which way is up or down. Yasha picks a direction she thinks will lead her towards land and begins to walk.

Her left arm hangs limp and her shoulder throbs, a dull ache sits in her chest, but the pilot musters every ounce of strength she has in her to drag the broken and crumbling machine back towards shore. She doesn’t know how long she walks, her body aching and her emotions reeling.

Zuala… she’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

Her mind feels empty.

The water starts to recede as she closes in on an empty beach. Storm Lord falls to its knees in the shallow water before collapsing on the shore. Dazed, Yasha disconnects from the rig and blunders through the gaping hole in the hull and onto the beach. The brightness of the sun disorients her, and she stumbles, falling to her knees. The world goes black.

* * *

A gust of icy sea wind bites at the exposed skin of Yasha’s face, whipping her unruly hair into knots. Instinctively, Yasha tightens her legs around the narrow iron beam upon which she is currently perched, roughly two hundred and fifty feet above the ground. The harness that anchors her to the metal frame is small comfort, but Yasha knows just how often equipment fails. Hell, that’s how she ended up in this position at the top of the wall - more accidental deaths, more job openings. She’s happy to take the risk as long as she also gets the extra rations that come with it.

Sparks fly as she continues welding, but only moments pass before a loud bell rings through the scaffolding, signaling the end of her shift. Yasha packs her tools into the utility belt around her waist, unclips her harness from the metal frame, and reattaches to a series of cables that allow her to descend back to the ground.

The base of the wall is bustling with the shift change, and Yasha patiently waits in line to return her equipment and clock out for the day. A TV in the corner shows a local news station, and shaky footage of what is unmistakably another kaiju attack grabs the ex-pilot’s attention.

The hustle and bustle of the construction site quiets as others begin to take notice of the footage as well. One worker turns up the TV volume as the tinny voice of the newscaster fills the room.

“I’m here in Nicodranas, where today, yet another kaiju attack took place. The kaiju, an enormous category four, broke through the coastal wall in less than an hour.”

The footage cuts to a shot of Nicodranas’ coastal wall, a behemoth of stone and iron, not unlike the wall Yasha and her fellow workers are constructing near Gwarden at this very moment, collapsing into the bay as the hulking colossus of a kaiju smashes its way into the city. Gasps and cries of outrage ripple through the crowd as their best chance of defending themselves from attack crumbles into dust.

“The Wall of Life had been deemed unbreachable by its builders,” the reporter continues. “Ironically, it was the recently decommissioned Jaeger, Moon Weaver, piloted by Nicodranas local Jester Lavorre and the mononymous Artagan, that finally took the beast down.”

A reel of cellphone footage shows the kaiju engaged in battle with a towering Jaeger, a sleek Mark Five model painted a rich, venomous green. The two behemoths clash and grapple until, finally, the kaiju falls to the ground, unmoving. The screen cuts back to an interview with the two pilots, still in their drivesuits. A tall, slight man with fiery red hair and a smarmy grin leans into the reporter’s microphone.

“Being honest, darling, the Jaeger program is being shut down because of mediocre pilots. It’s that simple,” he says, his voice silky smooth. Yasha’s jaw tightens and her fist clenches around the handle of her bag. _The nerve of this asshole_ , she thinks. Artagan continues, gesturing to a compact blue tiefling next to him, “This was mine and dear Jester’s tenth kill to date. Maybe if other pilots had an ounce of talent, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Yasha wheels around away from the TV and begins to make her way towards the exit, shoulders hunched even as the crowd parts around her imposing figure.

She spent years telling herself that if she had just been quicker, or stronger, or just - _a better pilot_ , then maybe she could have saved Zuala. Maybe things wouldn’t have ended up the way they did. Maybe they would still be waking up together, laughing together, fighting together. But they weren’t. It’s taken Yasha a long time to come to terms with the fact that there was nothing she could have done differently - that sometimes, the fight just doesn’t go your way. She won’t have some leprechaun-looking asshole be the devil on her shoulder.

Lost in her own thoughts, Yasha doesn’t even recognize the nearby whirring of helicopter blades until the military craft lands twenty feet from her, the aggressive winds causing the former soldier to shield her face with her hands. As the blades slow, the helicopter door opens and Yasha is met with a slight, dark-skinned elf, standing about a head shorter than herself, making their way determinedly in Yasha’s direction.

For an instant, Yasha wants to hide, to blend back in with the milling crowd, and pretend she never even noticed her former boss, but her feet are rooted to the spot.

In the years since the ex-pilot retired, kaiju attacks have been increasing, both in frequency and size. Previously unheard of category four kaijus, like the one that made landfall in Nicodranas just hours earlier, had replaced their smaller category one, two, and three cousins. These massive apex predators had turned the tide in the war and were slowly, but effectively, dwindling humanity’s resources. 

Yasha had wondered when this day would come.

“Ms. Nydoorin,” the elf began with a nod. “May I have a word?”

“Expositor,” Yasha replied, taking a deep breath. “Is that really a request?”

“I haven’t been your commanding officer in more than five years, Yasha. Technically I can’t command you to do anything.” Dairon’s expression softens. “Consider this a visit from an old friend.”

“Is that why you came in a military transport helicopter?” Yasha runs a hand over her face. “What is this about?”

Dairon nods, and gestures behind Yasha, towards an empty office inside the construction site. “Let’s speak privately.”

Yasha follows the Expositor inside, where she sets down her bag and closes the door behind them. 

“I’ve been searching for you for a while, Yasha. You’re a surprisingly hard woman to find.”

“Well, I don’t much like staying in one place,” Yasha counters smoothly, eyes never leaving the smaller elf. “And you know how it is - my job moves with the wall.”

Dairon nods, “I’ve spent the last six months activating everything I could get my hands on.” A beat. “There’s an old Jaeger, Mark Three. Needs a pilot.”

“There it is.” Yasha runs a hand through her hair and turns away from Dairon, taking a seat behind the office desk. “I’m guessing I’m not your first choice.”

“You are, actually. All the other Mark Three pilots are dead.”

“I don’t do that anymore, Expositor. You, of all people, should know that. I -” Yasha’s gaze drops to her hands in her lap, her voice quiets, “I can’t have anyone else in my head. Not after Zuala. I wouldn’t survive it twice.” The room is quiet for a moment then and abruptly, Yasha stands, hoisting her bag over her shoulder once more. “I’m sorry, Expositor.”

Yasha begins walking towards the door as a voice rings out behind her.

“The world is coming to an end, Ms. Nydoorin. Are you just gonna stand by and take it? Or are you going to go down fighting?”

* * *

_Bustling_ doesn’t seem enough to describe Port Damali, a massive hub of trade and transportation even before the last dregs of the Jaeger program set up shop along the docks. But as the helicopter descends towards one of many landing pads on top of towering hangar doors, everybody seems to be moving in fast forward. Yasha remembers when the hustle and bustle of military base life was part of her daily routine, but she hasn’t been a soldier in some time.

Rain pours onto the landing pad as Yasha steps out from the helicopter. Unperturbed, she turns her face to the sky and lets herself feel the heavy raindrops hit her face. 

Yasha always loved storms. They calm her. She’s never totally known why, most people she knows are afraid of the devastation they can wreak. But there are times where Yasha feels like a raging storm lends her its strength, its power. Zuala was one of the few people who understood. She too loved a good storm, it was one of the first things the couple had bonded over in their earlier years. Yasha closes her eyes and lets that familiar calm wash over her with the rain.

“Ms. Nydoorin!”

The woman in question is broken out of her trance by the sound of the Expositor’s voice calling her name. Yasha turns to see Dairon accepting an umbrella from a new figure approaching their landing pad, and Yasha’s full attention comes crashing back to the present.

A young, slight woman, roughly in her mid-twenties, stands next to Dairon. Her dark skin is strikingly contrasted by electric blue eyes that study Yasha intently. Were it not for her uniform, gold and cobalt blue beneath her navy overcoat, Yasha would hardly think she was military at all. For one, the woman’s dark brown hair was half-shaven, with the long locks that remained gathered on top of her head in a loose topknot, fallen strands hanging down to frame her face. For another, her face was richly adorned in jewelry, a gold ring in her nose, and two in her ear, and Yasha thought she could see a small stud in her left eyebrow as well.

Yasha was so entranced with this strange woman that she almost didn’t hear Dairon introduce her.

“Ms. Nydoorin, allow me to introduce Beauregard Lionett, one of our best and brightest.”

Both Yasha and the woman standing in front of her-- _Beauregard_ \--raise their eyebrows at the sentiment.

“Ms. Lionett is a key member of our Mark 3 restoration program. She personally trained and handpicked each of your copilot candidates.”

The smaller woman smirks, extending her hand out to Yasha. “You can call me Beau,” she says, the low timbre of her voice settling warmly in Yasha’s chest. Her blue eyes briefly run up and down Yasha’s soaked frame. “I have to say, I’ve done my fair share of research on you, and you’re still not quite what I expected.”

Yasha takes the proffered hand, and replies with a smile of her own, “In a good way or a bad way, Beau?”

Beau maintains her surprisingly strong grip and holds Yasha’s gaze for a moment.

“I’m not sure yet.”

An unexpected flush rapidly heats Yasha’s cheeks as she drops her eyes from this strange new woman. Beau releases her hand as Dairon beckons them both inside, and when Yasha looks back up, the other woman is still looking at her curiously, a half-smile playing on her face, before she turns and follows the Expositor inside.

The three-step into a large freight elevator, already half loaded with great glass tanks containing a variety of alien-looking organic specimens. Before the doors have a chance to close, Yasha hears raised voices and turns to see two more soaked figures frantically waving down the elevator’s operator as they barrel through the rapidly closing doorway.

“Hold the door, please!”

  
“Yeah, wait for us!”

In stumbles a pair of the oddest people Yasha has ever met. The first is a tall, lanky human in a patchwork suit, his gaunt facial features framed by long, untamed red hair. His companion is roughly half his size - a dark-haired, portly halfling woman in a bright yellow dress. The man quickly strips off his soaked overcoat as the halfling ushers Yasha away from the closest container.

“Please, please, step aside. Kaiju specimens like these are extremely rare, so please look, but don’t touch!” The halfling’s slightly manic voice is enough to move Yasha to the side, as her small hands most likely wouldn’t have moved the taller woman an inch.

“Ms. Nydoorin,” Dairon interjects, “This is our research team, Dr. Widogast,” they gesture to the man currently closely inspecting a smudge on the glass container, “and his assistant, Ms. Brenatto,” they finish gesturing to the halfling woman folding away her umbrella.

“‘Assistant’?” the halfling shoots back. “Expositor, just because I don’t have a _doctorate_ , doesn’t mean I’m just his _assistant_ . Caleb and I are a _team_ , aren’t we Caleb -”

“Of course, where would I be without you -”

“ _See_? Show a little respect -” 

“ _Veth_ -”

“Anyways,” the halfling turns suddenly to Yasha, her neck craning back comically far in order to meet Yasha’s gaze. “I’m Veth. Veth Brenatto.”

Yasha reaches down to shake the smaller woman’s hand. “Yasha. It’s nice to meet you.”

Veth gives Yasha’s hand one vigorous shake before she turns behind her and nudges the taller man’s hip to get his attention. “Caleb, introduce yourself to the tall lady.”

The man has shed his coat and is finishing rolling up the sleeves of his button-down as he is startled out of his focus on the glass in front of him.

“Apologies,” he starts, his voice heavily accented, though Yasha cannot pinpoint the origin. “I am Dr. Caleb Widogast, head of research. A pleasure.”

As Yasha shakes his hand, she notices the rough, uneven texture of Caleb’s skin. Glancing down, she is surprised to see faded scars, the twisted remnants of severe burns, starting at the doctor’s hands and winding their way as far up his arms as she can see. Caleb’s hand quickly lets go of hers.

“Sorry - err - old scars,” he looks down, nervously shifting to drape his coat over his exposed forearms. “I was a teenager visiting Bysaes Tyl with my parents when one of the early kaiju attacks hit. Got some souvenirs.” He finishes on a forced laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Yasha says gently. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the only one with kaiju scars.” She pulls back the collar of her shirt to show the straight, red burns across her left shoulder, in a perfect mirror of the circuitry on her old drivesuit.

Caleb looks at her intently for a moment. “I - err - thank you. That is worth something.”

The doors choose that moment to open, and Yasha nods briefly back to Caleb before following Dairon and Beau out into the hallway. The other woman slows her gait to walk beside Yasha.

“Don’t mind those two, they’re a little weird at first, but they’ll grow on you, I promise.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Beau laughs, low and throaty. “You could say that. Caleb and I hated each other when we first met, but he’s actually a solid dude. Smart as fuck, too. Veth used to steal my shit too until I finally caught her and told her I’d break all her fingers if she ever did it again.”

Yasha’s gaze whips towards Beau’s, eyebrows raised.

Beau snorts. “I wouldn’t _actually_ break all her fingers, Jesus.” She pauses and cocks her head. “But she doesn’t need to know that.”

Yasha can’t help but snort this time, too. 

Ahead of them, Dairon inputs a code onto a wall-mounted keypad, and a pair of great metal doors slide open. 

The chamber beyond the doors is massive. At least three hundred meters high and twice as long, Yasha cranes her neck to take it all in. If she thought the landing pad was busy, it’s nothing compared to the work going on in here. Hundreds of soldiers, technicians, and engineers bustling away like ants in a colony. A great ticking noise behind her causes Yasha to spin back towards the doorway where they entered, above which sits a massive clock, which currently reads, “000 DAYS, 14 HRS, 35 MINS, 45 SEC,” and continues to count up.

“The War Clock,” Dairon explains as they continue forward into the hangar bay. “We reset it after every kaiju attack, helps keep everyone focused. But the rate of attacks is accelerating.”

Yasha half jogs to keep up with the elf. “How long until the next reset?”

“A week, if we’re lucky. Our experts believe there will be a kaiju attack even before that.”

“Jesus.”

“This complex used to hold thirty Jaegers in five bays just like this one. Now we’ve only got three jaegers left.”

Yasha’s feet stutter to a stop as she takes in that information. Gathering herself, she moves again to catch up, running a hand through her tangled hair. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“It is that bad,” the elf points to one of the remaining Jaegers in the nearby pit: an older, bulky machine painted a mix of sea greens and turquoise blue. “This one is Wild Mother, last of the Mark Ones. Oldest and heaviest Jaeger in the service. Currently piloted by veteran Caduceus Clay and a local kid, Fjord Stone,” they gesture to a pair of two odd figures sitting comfortably drinking tea on top of a handful of cargo crates: a towering, pastel pink firbolg, and a stout half-orc. Dairon continues, “She’s an old girl, but they’ve got new tricks up their sleeves.”

Dairon continues past Wild Mother towards another, more familiar Jaeger - newer, sleeker, and painted a vibrant shade of venomous green. As they circle the base of the giant machine, a compact blue tiefling lets out a girlish squeal and bounds over.

“Beau!” Jester exclaims. Reaching her companion, the tiefling pulls Beau down into an exuberant hug, and, to Yasha’s surprise, Beau returns the hug with equal enthusiasm, lifting the tiefling off her feet. “It’s so good to see you! You have to tell me _everything_ that’s happened since I last saw you - oh, yes, say hi, Sprinkle!”

The tiefling pulls back the high collar of her jacket to reveal an extremely haggard weasel with wild eyes that has wrapped itself around her shoulders. At first sight, Yasha doesn’t think _Sprinkle_ is a particularly apt name for such a feral-looking creature. Sure enough, when Beau hesitantly reaches out to pet it at Jester’s insistence, the weasel lunges for her fingers and lets out the most unholy snarl Yasha has ever heard. Luckily for Beau’s fingers, her reflexes are quick enough to withdraw before any damage can be done.

Jester gasps dramatically and pats the weasel on the head. “Bad Sprinkle!” she scolds, “That wasn’t very nice. I’m sorry, he can get nervous around strangers,” she concludes, looking to Yasha and Dairon as she tucks the weasel back inside her collar once more.

“Yasha, this is Jester Lavorre,” Dairon introduces the tiefling, “Her father and I were friends from the old Mark One days.”

Yasha reaches forward to shake Jester’s hand. “We’ve met, actually. Back when you were still piloting with your father, right?”

“Yep!” Jester shakes her hand enthusiastically. “That three Jaeger team in Icehaven. He retired a little while after that. It’s so good to see you again!” Her voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper, “But I’m glad we’re not back in Icehaven, because that place was fucking freezing.”

“You and me both.”

“And Yasha,” Jester starts, her voice abruptly gentle. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Oh, uhh,” Yasha looks down at her shoes. “Thank you, Jester.”

“Jester and her co-pilot Artagan will be running point using Moon Weaver,” Dairon continues. “She’s the fastest Jaeger in the world, the first and last of the Mark Fives. She was decommissioned a single day before the Nicodranas attack.”

“They’re lucky we were even still there!” Jester exclaims, “Who knows what would have happened if we had left already.”

“Exactly. And now they’re running point for us.”

“Running point on what, exactly?” Yasha asks, spinning towards Dairon. “You still haven’t told me what’s going on here, Expositor.”

Dairon sighs, and meet’s Yasha’s inquisitive gaze, “We’re going for the breach, Ms. Nydoorin. We’re going to strap a 2400-pound thermonuclear warhead to Moon Weaver’s back and detonate the equivalent of 1.2 million tons of TNT. And you and Wild Mother will be running defense for them.”

Yasha shakes her head, her brow furrowed. “Expositor, we’ve hit the breach before. It doesn’t work, nothing goes through. What’s different this time?”

“We’ve got a plan. I just need you ready.” And with that, Dairon turns and walks away.

Yasha sighs and her shoulders slump. She’s no mastermind, but she doesn’t appreciate being intentionally left in the dark. She’s going to find out what’s going on.

“Hey,” Beau appears at her shoulder. “Don’t worry about them.” A smile slips onto her face, and she jerks her head behind her, gesturing to the opposite end of the bay. “Wanna see your Jaeger?”

* * *

Yasha follows Beau through the crowded hangar bay, winding their way through the hustle and bustle and up some scaffolding opposite one of the final ports in the bay. The view from the top knocked the breath from Yasha’s lungs.

“Here she is,” says Beau. “Storm Lord.”

Yasha can feel the smaller woman’s eyes on her as she approaches the edge of the landing, bracing herself on the railing. Across the way stands her old Jaeger, the old machine that once felt as much a part of her body as her own arms and legs. The same machine she last saw missing its left arm, with gaping holes in the body, and half the cockpit ripped to shreds - only now, she looks whole, intact, beautiful. You would never know the horrors that Jaeger, and its pilot, once endured.

“Holy shit,” Yasha breathes. “She looks good as new.”

“She’s better than new,” Beau agrees, stepping up beside Yasha at the railing. “They outfitted her with a double core nuclear reactor. She’s one of a kind now.”

“She always was.” Yasha finally manages to tear her eyes away from the Jaeger to look back down at the other woman. The gaze that meets hers is full of gentleness. Yasha’s breath catches.

After a moment, Beau clears her throat, looking briefly at her own boots before gesturing back to Storm Lord. 

“She’s got a solid iron hull now, no alloys. Forty engine blocks per muscle strand, a hyper-torque driver for every limb, and a brand new fluid synapse system.” Yasha’s eyebrows raise with every specification Beau lists off. Not that she didn’t think Beau was intelligent, but she hadn’t exactly pegged her as an engineer. Beau sees her expression and huffs out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of her neck.

“At least, that’s what the mechanics tell me. The point is, she’s back up and running and ready for a good fight if you’re willing to give her one.”

Yasha considers the other woman for a long moment. There’s something about Beau - energy simmering just underneath the cool, collected soldier’s surface. She could see it in her unorthodox appearance. She caught glimpses of the lean, sinewy muscle along Beau’s neck and shoulders that she’s sure descends into well-defined arms. She noticed the way the soldier always seems to be half biting her tongue. Yasha sees a fighter’s instinct in Beau.

She’d like to see it more.

“Is she now?”

Color briefly fills Beau’s cheeks as she chuckles yet again, abruptly spinning from the railing and gesturing back the way they came.

“Anyway I’ll - uhh - I’ll show you to your quarters.”

Yasha shoves her hands in her pockets and smiles to herself as she falls into step with the soldier on their way back to the heart of the base. About halfway back, Yasha’s curiosity gets the better of her.

“So, what’s your deal?” she starts, flinching internally at the somewhat harsh wording. “I mean - you train pilots? Are you a pilot yourself?”

Beau shrugs, cocking her head to one side.

“Uhh - no. I’m not a pilot. Not officially. But as part of the Mark Three restoration program it was my job to familiarize myself with the Mark Three pilots - well, _pilot -_ ” She waves a hand at Yasha, “- analyze their strategy, and train potential co-pilots accordingly.” 

_Wow_ , Yasha thinks. That’s impressive for someone who apparently has never been in a Jaeger herself. Her instincts about Beau’s intellectual capabilities must have been correct - though no engineer, the soldier must have a mind for strategy and tactics to be given that responsibility.

“What’s your simulator score?”

Beau glances up at the pilot, cheeks coloring once more.

“Fifty-one drops, fifty-one kills.”

“Shit,” Yasha breathes. “That’s amazing. But - you said you handpicked all the candidates for tomorrow, right?” 

Beau nods.

“So you’re not one of them?”

She hesitates, her step falters.

“No, I’m not,” she all but grits through her teeth. Her guide then gestures to the nondescript door they’ve stopped in front of. “Here we are. Home sweet home. Y’know, until the kaiju destroy us all,” she snorts, but it holds no humor.

Yasha raises an eyebrow in response, and Beau’s face abruptly falls. She turns to unlock and open the door.

“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Yasha says as she steps into her small, but livable, quarters, and setting down her bag. “Why not?”

The other woman shrugs and leans nonchalantly against the doorframe.

“Ahh, you know Dairon. They, uh -“ her eyes drop to the floor. “They have their reasons, is all.” Yasha isn’t convinced.

“Well with fifty-one kills, I can’t imagine what they would be.”

Beau releases a humorless laugh, eyes rolling as she tilts her head back up to the ceiling.

“Yeah, I’m not exactly thrilled about it either. But it is what it is, okay?”

Yasha knows when she’s stepped on a nerve. She steers the conversation in a different direction.

“So, it was your job to study the Mark Three pilots - to study me - right? So you must know me pretty well, huh? Probably better than anyone else.” She doesn’t know where this confidence is coming from. Beau’s gaze snaps back to hers, frustration melting into a cool facade, like a deer trying to act like it’s not caught in headlights.

“Uhh - yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

“So what do you think?”

“What do I think?”

“Yeah. About my _strategy_ , or whatever.”

Beau takes a moment to carefully consider her words. She swallows as the hesitancy fades from her face.

“I think you’re an incredibly capable fighter,” Beau begins, voice level as though reporting to a superior officer, rather than a has-been ex-pilot who just flew in from off the streets. “You can deliver brutal knock-downs, and you can take a beating when you need to. Hell, just walking Storm Lord back to Port Zoon by yourself shows you’re probably stronger than most of the pilots here.”

Yasha’s gaze drops at the mention of the last time she fought.

“However,” Beau continues. Yasha’s face lifts again at the change in the other woman’s tone. “You can be self-sacrificial and easily distracted. You’ll miss opportunities in order to watch out for others, even those comparably insignificant to the city you’re trying to protect. It’s…admirable. But ultimately inefficient.”

The commentary stings, but Yasha can’t deny her claims. She remembers, in Icehaven, when she convinced Zuala to break their formation with the other two jaegers in their group in order to defend a lighthouse just off the coast of the city. Or another fight in Nicodranas, when she and Zuala had a kaiju pinned - the kaiju had taken a nasty bite at Storm Lord’s right arm - Zuala’s arm - that left it wide open for an immediate counter from Yasha’s plasma cannon. Only, Yasha’s focus was broken by Zuala’s cry of pain. She missed her chance. They ended up taking down the kaiju, but not before more damage had been done to both Storm Lord and the city.

And, of course, the last time - when she was so proud of herself for saving a boat - _a goddamn fishing boat_ \- that she completely missed the fact that the kaiju they were fighting wasn’t fucking dead. She doesn’t need reminding of what that mistake cost her.

Yasha’s hands dig into her pockets as she stares at her foot scuffing the concrete floor. 

“Thank you for your honesty.” As much as it stings, she means it. If she’s going to be any use to these people, one of only three teams left to defend the world, she needs to be at her best.

“Really, it’s helpful. But Beau,” she approaches the soldier, looking down at her intently, “My job isn’t just to kill kaiju. It’s to protect people. And I won’t be sorry I tried to help others. When you’re out there, fighting a giant monster for real - you make decisions.” Her voice quiets. “And you live with the consequences, believe me.”

Beau’s face falls as she realizes what Yasha means. She reaches a hand out before thinking better of it, and lets it fall loosely to her side.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Yasha. I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.” Yasha shakes her head.

“It’s okay, I know what you meant,” the taller woman placates. “Besides, I asked, and you gave a fair and accurate assessment.” She breathes out a short laugh. “You really have been studying.”

The pity in Beau’s face is entirely too familiar to Yasha - it’s the same look everyone else gets whenever Zuala is mentioned. Like any wrong word could shatter her like glass.

“I know you’re probably tired of hearing this,” Beau’s voice is soft when she speaks once more. “But I’m sorry about your wife. I can’t imagine what that must have felt like.”

Yasha nods, but doesn’t meet Beau’s gaze, her response rote.

“Thank you, Beau.”

Beau nods, turning to leave the room, but she stops halfway.

“For what it’s worth,” she adds, “I know none of the pilots I picked out will ever replace her. But I at least hope you’ll find someone worthy of being your teammate, if nothing else.”

Before Yasha can respond, the soldier turns and crosses to the opposite side of the hall, opening the door to a seemingly identical dormitory.

Yasha sighs, and finally shrugs off her oversized coat. She turns the faucet on the sink in the corner, and wrestles off her grimy work shirt as she waits for the water to warm. She wets a washcloth and absentmindedly runs it over her face as she makes her way back over to where she dumped her duffel bag on the bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she realizes her door still stands open - and so does Beau’s.

The woman in question is standing in her own doorway, her eyes rapt on Yasha. Heat briefly flushes Yasha’s cheeks as she realizes Beau is essentially staring at her topless, save her sports bra, and is clearly drinking in her prominent, well-defined muscles. Beau’s eyes drop, tracing down her body, and the heat vanishes from Yasha’s face as quickly as it arrived.

Beau is staring at her scars.

Faded, red, geometric scars line Yasha’s left shoulder and upper arm, as well as the left side of her chest and ribcage - the painful result of her drivesuit short circuiting during her final fight in Port Zoon.

The pilot has never been particularly shy about her body, but something about Beau seeing her, about Beau _knowing_ her in this way, that sits heavy in Yasha’s chest. She doesn’t feel ashamed, by any means, but she feels….something. Something that scares her and warms her all at once.

It’s at that moment that Beau realizes she’s been caught, her spine stiffening and her cheeks flushing red as she freezes in the doorway. After a moment, her posture relaxes as she regains her composure. She gives Yasha a nod and a mock salute and quickly shuts her door. Releasing a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding, Yasha does the same.

**Author's Note:**

> me to me: i'm gonna create an au that is so self-indulgent
> 
> as always hmu on tumblr @groves or on twitter @groves625


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